Robert kept running, as fast as his little legs would carry him. His reasoning was, if he dashed into the Houses of Parliament again, it’d be the last place they’d look: straight into the lion’s jaws.
Moreover, he stood a chance of retaining (…).
But Cameroon was gaining on him, having not been too bad in the Eton cross country running club. He saw Robert darting inside and quickened his pace.
He faulted over a privet with surprising dexterity, halted for a moment to view the descending rabble of police behind him. ‘Follow me, you fools,’ he yelled.
Tearing through the oaken doors, the place was in darkness. Stopping for a moment he could hear footsteps disappearing up some stone spiral staircase.
Lipscombe no doubt, he thought.
He raced over a vast ornamental rug, and took from its sheath a fencing sword mounted on the wall. ‘There’ll be no more if this trouble’, he cried, as sallied forth in pursuit of the direction he thought the footsteps had disappeared in. ‘Curses’ thought Robert, ‘I think I saw him pitter patter in after me’.
He stopped and listened. He could certainly hear someone panting and groaning, and somewhat exhausted sounding footsteps. He could also here a kind of Etonian voice, uttering illegible, or otherwise passé, exclamations and curses.
Doubtless the police would be after him. He’d have to make good his hiding place.
He supposed they would immediately imagine he’d be after his memory stick, and he fancied his situation somewhat unlikely.
He wondered what the hell he could do.
Cameroon was silent fur a moment, and Robert tried to remain so too.
Of course, Cameroon would have made his way directly to guard the doors of the room in which they were kept.
Lipscombe was skirting around a high vaulted wall, his legs perilously balanced on the archaic archetraving. If he made it out of this one it’d be a masterpiece (or a miracle) he said to him self.
What hope was there, but to make a break for it before the police arrived. Over power Cameroon, grab the (…), and disappear, perhaps on the banks of the Rhames, or some such thing.
He continued to skirt on his precarious hiding place.
‘Ha ha, there you are’, came Cameron’s shrill voice.
He was looking directly at him.
‘Ha ha! I was always a deadly shot you know, in my school days.’ He stood, his sword pointed at Lipscombe who hung way above him on the archetraving.
It was a somewhat compromising situation, and Lipscombe wondered what to do. Would Cameroon let fly with the fencing sword? Would it skewer him in the neck? Could he somehow get down there and over power him before the police arrive?
Cameroon set off at a pace, brandishing his sword. And at that moment, Lipscombe leapt, catching hold of one of the vast belfry ropes that hung from precipitous heights in the vast belfry.
The calamitous chime of Big Ben rang out as he sailed across the room, leaving his heart somewhere up on the archetraving.
But at this point, something ominous happened